


The Sound of Angels Falling

by Kirsten



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-23
Updated: 2003-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirsten/pseuds/Kirsten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The body is still warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Angels Falling

The body is still warm. Vimes crouches and rests his fingertips lightly against the boy's cheek. "What happened here?"

Cheery stops pointing her iconograph at the blood on the floor to answer. "His father," she explains.

Vimes looks around at the man standing in the corner of the room. He stares blankly at the floor.

"He hasn't moved since we arrived," Cheery says.

The man is short, slender, dark haired and blue eyed. He doesn't look like a murderer but, thinks Vimes, they so rarely do.

"What's his name?"

"Abe Spenk." Cheery jerked her head at the wall. "He was a sergeant in the First of Foot, sir."

Vimes follows her gaze and sees medal after medal lining the wall. The Morporkian Star, for bravery under fire. The Bolt of Honour, awarded by the High Priest of Io. The Klatchian Mark, and that's very rare. What must Abe Spenk have done to deserve that?

There are Hogswatch cards lying in the blood. They must have fallen during the struggle, such as it could have been, between a grown man and boy of less than ten.

Vimes turns his eyes away. "You've got everything you need?"

"Just another couple of pictures, sir. That should do it."

"Can it wait?" He nods at Abe Spenk.

"Yes, sir," says Cheery, catching his meaning. She gathers her samples and quietly exits. Vimes watches her go, heeled mining boots thumping the floor. Abe Spenk doesn't move, doesn't look at her or at Vimes, just stares at the body on the floor. Cheery open the door and late afternoon sunlight floods the room; Vimes sees tears glinting on Abe Spenk's face.

Vimes hates this case.

He crosses the floor and picks up the knife lying at the man's feet. "Where did you get this?"

Abe Spenk doesn't answer.

"Sir."

No response.

Vimes claps his hands, loudly, and then slaps him across the face. "Sir, I'd be grateful if you could find it within you to tell me why this happened."

Abe Spenk focuses and lifts a hand to hold his cheek. He mumbles something Vimes doesn't hear, but it hardly matters. He's covered in blood, the knife's at his feet, there's a child dead on the floor. There'll be a trip to the cells, an audience with the Patrician, and then a dance on the gallows. Case closed.

Justice is a harsh mistress.

"Sir," he repeats. "Is this your son?"

Abe Spenk falls to the floor, sobs wracking his body. The noise is harsh, and Vimes wants to press his hands to his ears, leave the room, the city, the world, anything to stop hearing the broken words that spill from Abe Spenk's mouth. "He crept up on me. He shouldn't of crept up on me like that . . ."

Vimes doesn't dare whisper. He can't offer anything that will make it better. Nobody can, but that doesn't mean a great deal.

"Corporal Littlebottom will be back to take more pictures," he says. "I'll see you soon, Mr Spenk."

He leaves the room. Steps into cool air and hands the knife to Cheery, who places it carefully into a numbered paper bag before going back inside. The bag dampens with the boy's blood, and Abe Spenk's anguish fades as the door closes once again.

He pulls out his cigar case, takes a cigar and lights up, drawing deeply on the smoke. A bottle of Bearhugger's would slip down well. But one drink would be one too many.

Fred's guarding the door. His shoulders are just a little slumped. Vimes taps him on the helmet, and he jumps into a salute. "Mister Vimes!"

"All quiet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Keep an eye on things for a while."

Fred's brow wrinkles. "You going back to the Yard, sir?"

"No," says Vimes. "I'm going home for a while."

Fred salutes again. "Yessir!"

Vimes puffs on his cigar until the tip glows orange. "Stop saluting, Fred. You'll do yourself an injury."

"Yessir!"

Vimes grins at the sky and begins the walk home, his boots crunching the icy snow underfoot. It's dull and brown, more mud than snow. How like Ankh-Morpork, he thinks, to take something so pure and clean and turn it into something dirty.

The streets are quiet. There are only little crowds at Hogswatch. Dwarfs and trolls bustle here and there, and humans from outlandish places who have never heard of the Hogfather still shout their wares from stalls at the sides of the roads. The noise flows around Vimes, drifts over his head in waves as if he were trapped underwater, flailing blindly, drowning, drowning.

He drops his cigar to the ground and walks up the hill to the house, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. The snow is thicker here, less muddy, more cream, and it covers the branches on the trees and even the grass trying to grow on the verge. The house looks warm and inviting from a distance, a suspicion confirmed as fact when he steps in through the front door to log fires and Hogswatch decorations and a little dragon lumbering slowly after a piece of coal tied to some string, it's insides gurgling loudly.

Sybil is surprised to see him, but she stops playing with the dragon and greets him with a kiss. "What are you doing here?"

"No reason." Vimes points at the ceiling. "Is he . . . ?"

"I just put him down."

Vimes nods and moves past her, creeping upstairs. He's careful not to tread on the boards that creak, and makes it to his son's bedroom without making a sound. He pushes open the door and peeks inside. The baby is fast asleep in his cradle.

Vimes closes the door behind him. Young Sam breathes steadily, quietly. Vimes wishes he could catch that sound, that whisper, and hold it in his hand forever. It would keep him warm on winter nights, it would make the darkness seem a little bright.

Sam is perfect.

He reaches down and presses his finger into Sam's hand, and watches little fingers curl around it. He blinks, and tries to stop the tears from leaving his eyes.

Time slips away from him as he stands there staring at Sam. The sun drops and the sky darkens, and still Vimes stares at his child.

The moon is casting white light in through the window when the door opens and Sybil steps in. "Sam?" she whispers.

"He's fine," Vimes whispers back.

"I meant you." She touches his shoulder. "I thought you went back hours ago."

Vimes shakes his head, pats Sybil helplessly on the shoulder.

Her voice is gentle. "Did something happen?"

He shakes his head again. "No. Just a bit of a domestic." It's almost uncanny, how the word buries the horror. Like snow buries the mud of Ankh-Morpork.

Sybil kisses him, rests her head on his shoulder. Vimes thanks whatever gods are listening for a wife who understands that it's never "just" anything.

They stand in silence for a long time. Sam begins to stir and cry, and Sybil picks him up and slips away, whispering, "It's time for his feed." Vimes holds her hand until the very last minute and then lets go, and she stands in the doorway looking back at him, their struggling baby in her arms, radiant and beautiful.

"Are you coming?"

"In a minute," Vimes says.

She smiles and disappears, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Vimes smiles back, but it feels frozen on his face.

He looks out of the window. Around the house the snow is stark white and untouched. Maybe it's a metaphor, but Vimes laughs at that, knowing the darkness in his own heart, the grime he drags in off the streets that will never, ever be clean enough for his son.

He's a Watchman. He can't keep a pure home.


End file.
